Page 50 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

“Please.” She lifts her brows. “You were practically vibrating with territorial energy. If you’d growled, I might’ve had to throw a saddle on you.”

“You givin’ me ideas?” I shoot back, stepping a little closer.

“Grant,” she says, tone softening as her hand lands flat on my chest. “It was just his number for the article. Mason’s your best friend, not some cowboy in a dark alley.”

I nod, but the weight in my chest doesn’t quite lift.

“Have you always been a possessive caveman?” she asks with a quirked brow, that teasing glint lighting up her face.

“Possessive over a woman? Never,” I say, voice dropping low as I step closer, slow and smug.

“Not until I met you, darlin’. Plus…” I gesture subtly to the rodeo grounds behind us, where at least three cowboys are already sneaking glances in her direction, their boots barely dry from their last ride.

“You’ve seen these cowboys. Too much starch in their jeans, not enough sense in their heads. I’ve gotta keep you safe from cowboy charm and unsolicited two-step invitations. It’s a full-time job.”

She smirks. “Protecting me from them? Or them from me?”

I grin. “Both. But especially from Mason.”

Her brows lift. “Mason?”

“Yup. He doesn’t talk much to anyone other than me and his twin, and he’s already spoken to you three times today. That’s basically a love declaration in Mason-speak. I’m gonna have to start charging him rent if he keeps circling.”

Her head tips back and she laughs again—hard enough to make the curls bounce at her shoulders and my heart damn near burst out of my chest. God, I love that sound. Like sunshine laced with honey and just a hint of trouble. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Hey, I’ve gotta protect you from their ruley ways.” He says with his hands up in a surrender pose.

She crosses her arms, cocking a brow. “Their what?”

“Their ruley ways. That means unruly, but Texan. Especially Mason”

She laughs so hard it makes my chest thrum. “You’re insane.”

“Insanely territorial,” I correct. “But only about you darlin’.”

She shakes her head, cheeks flushed, and swats my chest like she’s not blushing all the way to her ears. She tilts her head, voice gentler now. “You think I’d come to a rodeo with you, wear your shirt, take photos of your world, and then turn around and fall for your best friend?”

My gut tightens, but I keep my tone light. “Wouldn’t blame you. He’s a good-lookin’ guy.”

Her eyes narrow as she steps even closer. “So are you,” she says, biting her lip and giving me that look.

That look that says, I would if I could, right here, right now.

My heart kicks hard against her palm, and her thumb brushes lightly along my sternum—just enough to ground me.

“Besides,” she adds, smirking now, “if I wanted a firefighter, I’d call the station. But I want a cowboy with rope-burned hands, deep pools of brown eyes, a wicked mouth, one strong pepper-chucking right arm and the balls to build me a custom river training course before sunrise.”

“Is that right?” I grin so wide, my face might split in half, pulling her closer by the belt loop of my flannel she’s still wearing like it’s always belonged to her.

“Damn right it is.” Her nose brushes mine.

The world tilts.

And suddenly the roar of the rodeo fades to background noise.

She kisses me soft, right there near the competitor tent, and I feel that jealousy slide off my shoulders like dust in the wind. Because yeah, maybe Mason’s got charm and ease—but I’ve got her .

And that’s all I need.

***

The crowd roars as I enter the arena, but I barely hear them. My focus narrows to the chute where my draw for the night—a mean son of a bitch named Widowmaker—is already pawing at the ground. I adjust my glove, take my position, and wrap my hand in the rope.

Just before the gate opens, I find Mia in the front row where Mason escorted her. Our eyes lock, and she gives me a small nod that somehow means more than the cheers of ten thousand spectators.

Then the gate swings wide, and Widowmaker explodes into the arena.

The bull is all power and fury beneath me, twisting and bucking with a violence that threatens to tear my arm from its socket. My shoulder screams in protest, but I bear down, matching his rhythm, anticipating each move a split second before it happens.

Six seconds in, he spins sharply to the left, nearly dislodging me. I compensate, keeping my core tight, my free arm high, my focus absolute.

Four more seconds. That's all I need.

Three.

Widowmaker changes tactics, throwing his head back before launching into a series of rapid-fire bucks that send jolts of pain through my injured shoulder. My vision blurs at the edges, but I refuse to let go. Not yet.

Two.

The buzzer sounds, sweet as a lover's whisper in my ear. I release my grip and push off, landing on my feet and immediately sprinting for the fence. Behind me, the bullfighters move in to distract Widowmaker.

The crowd's roar crashes over me as I clear the fence, adrenaline still surging through my veins. cheers echoing off the metal bleachers, every nerve in my body still crackling with adrenaline.

My legs are shaky, my hands a little numb, but my grin stretches wide as I slap my buddy Theo's hand in celebration. The ride felt good. Clean. Controlled. Damn near perfect.

I tip my hat to the audience, flashing my competition smile, but my eyes seek only one person.

And then I see her.

Mia, standing just behind the fence line with her camera slung around her neck, eyes locked on me like I just did something heroic, her expression a mixture of awe and concern. I don't stop to think.

I push through the gate and straight toward her, ignoring the congratulatory slaps on my back from other riders.

She's still in those worn jeans shorts and my flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up and hair tied high, but there's something about the way she's watching me now—like she forgot to breathe while I rode—that snaps the last thread of restraint inside me.

“That was...” she starts, then shakes her head. “I don't even have words.”

“Good, right?” I grin, still riding the high of a successful ride.

“Terrifying,” she corrects, but there's admiration in her eyes. “But also... I get it now. I see what you mean about the focus, the freedom.”

Before I can respond, Mason appears beside us, his ride completed successfully as well.

“Not bad, Taylor,” he says, eyeing my shoulder. “Though you'll be feeling that spin tomorrow.”

“Worth it,” I reply, wincing as I rotate my arm. “What'd I score?”

“Eighty-seven,” Mason tells me. “Good enough for second place so far.”

“Second?” I feign outrage. “To who?”

“Me,” Mason smirks. “Eighty-nine.”

Mia laughs, the sound pure and delighted. “So he is better than you.”

“One time out of ten,” I grumble good-naturedly.

Mason studies Mia again, this quiet assessment different from earlier—more approving. He catches my eye and gives a subtle nod before turning away. “Going to check the standings. Don't disappear.”

As he walks away, Mia looks at me quizzically. “What was that about?”

“What?”

That look between you two. That nod.”

I shrug, suddenly feeling exposed. “Mason doesn't warm up to people easily. Especially people I...” I trail off, unsure how to finish.

“People you what?” she presses, stepping closer.

“People I care about,” I admit, the words feeling inadequate for the storm of emotions she stirs in me.

Her expression softens, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes before she masks it. “That's his seal of approval, then?”

“Something like that.” I take her hand, threading our fingers together. “Come on. I want to show you something.”